Mrs. Donahue had said the street was called an “avenue,” which made it sound very grand. Lily and I walked along together. The street was wide and clean and quiet. A row of trees stretched along a grassy strip that ran down the middle of it and houses lined both sides. Most of them were far larger than the O’Hanlon house. Some were so imposing they took my breath away. They looked like the palaces I had seen in picture books. They were built mostly of brick or stone, with turrets and spires rising from the roofs, while ornate carvings, some of them ugly gargoyles, lined the balustrades. Many of the houses were surrounded by wrought-iron fences with big gates in front for carriages or cars to enter. I shivered. There was nothing welcoming about them; in fact, they reminded me of fortresses. I was glad Mr. O’Hanlon’s house was nothing like them.

Now and then a motorcar or horse-drawn carriage moved leisurely along the roadway, breaking the serenity of the silence. Nannies in black dresses and white frilly aprons passed us pushing huge prams, and young women in modest costumes and hats towed children along by the hand. I guessed these were governesses. Most of them had stern expressions, and I noticed Lily staring up at them.

“Let’s go back,” I said to her. “It’s almost time for lunch.”

Without looking up, she slipped her hand into mine as we walked. My heart skipped with delight. Her small gesture meant more to me than if she’d suddenly uttered a thousand words.

On Sunday, Mrs. Donahue insisted I must take the day off.

“But what will I do?” I said, suddenly nervous.

She looked at me in confusion, then nodded her head.

“Ah, sure, I wasn’t thinking, Nora. You’re a stranger to the city. Ye have been no farther than the end of the street and back.” She reached for her coat. “No matter. I’m on me way to Mass at St Patrick’s. I’ll be taking ye with me. Then I can show ye a few places, and next time ye can go by yourself.”

Before I knew it, Mrs. Donahue was marching me down the avenue, her arm linked in mine, prattling away in the early May sunshine. I was too busy looking all around to reply to her. I stared at the people on the street: families with children dressed up as adults and jaunty young men in a hurry. There were gentlewomen in coats with fur collars on the arm of men with top hats and walking sticks. They nodded at us without smiles. They reminded me of the first-class passengers on the Titanic, and I brushed the memory away. It was bad enough I had constant nightmares about the sinking. I didn’t want such memories ruining my days as well.